Temptation on the Warfront

15

Malfoy jumps backwards, his face red and his eyes wide, and Harry abruptly stops in what he now realises has been a pursuit to have Malfoy's lips back on his own.

Malfoy is petrified, and after seeing the way his face begins to pale, Harry's heart slows back to its normal pace, and reluctantly he thinks, for Malfoy's sake, he will try to concentrate better. If this unexplainable, skin-tingling attraction really makes Malfoy that uncomfortable, Harry will try to ignore it.

"So, um... Shall we try again?"

Malfoy stares at him for a few seconds, and then seems to get a hold of himself, because he shrugs with a frown that isn't entirely there, and then walks away, back into the forest, his passing sentence trailing over his shoulder, "Later, maybe."

Harry watches him disappear into the dense trees, and thinks he should probably head back too, back into the warmth of their tent. But the river, half frozen with its glittering water, is too beautiful to ignore, and Harry finds himself clearing a patch of snow off the ground and sitting down.

As he stares at the river, he wonders about what Hermione is doing right now, whether she's found Ron or not, and if she's convinced him to come back. He goes over words in his head, trying to figure out which ones he'd use if he were to see Ron right now, but he comes up short, because he thinks fists would be the dominating factor of what would be involved.

There is an unnerving, smothered anxiety in Harry's stomach which whispers to him the possibility of Hermione choosing to stay with Ron instead, of the both of them choosing to live their lives as normally as possible while a war rages on around them. He wonders if they'd go into hiding, if he'd ever see them again — if he'd even be alive to see them again. A lump wedges its way into Harry's throat, and he blinks rapidly into the cold air.

To distract himself from his morose thoughts, he chooses to worry about what he and Malfoy will do now, where they will go, and how Harry will go about showing Malfoy how to cast the Patronus Charm. A part of him is under the impression that Malfoy was just having a laugh when the suggestion slipped from his lips, but then Harry remembers the sincere vulnerability buried beneath Malfoy's indifference, and he knows that Malfoy will be just as willing, if not more so, to learn the spell than Harry is willing to teach it.

Draco sits by the fire, poking it occasionally with a long stick, because it's fun to see the sparks it sends up, and because Potter's not there to accuse him of doing anything like a muggle. Potter is inside the tent, swearing every now and then and making irritating, muffled noises.

Draco is just about to yell at him to shut up when Potter emerges, something large, black and woollen in his hands. Draco quirks an eyebrow, thinking Potter's gone and skinned a bear or something, but then Potter shoves whatever it is into Draco's lap and says, "You should put this on."

"Should I?" Draco asks sardonically, inspecting what he realises is a garment — a long, thick coat of sorts. "Why should I?"

"'Cause," Potter replies, and Draco notices that he is wearing one too, only it's a light grey which brightens the colour of his eyes, "It's bloody cold, and we're going somewhere."

Draco glowers at the coat in his hands, and the back up at Potter, "Oh, really? Care to elaborate?"

"Not really, no."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because —"

"Going to trundle off to London in search of the Weasel and the Mudblood, are we?" Draco can't help himself, but suddenly he all he feels is bitterness and jealousy.

"No — and don't call them that —"

"I'll call them what I please."

"Will you just shut up, Malfoy! For fuck's sake — I haven't told you where we're going because you'll probably get all snooty about it and say, 'no, I'm not going anywhere with you, Potter, let alone some place related to Gryffindor, blah blah blah, I'm a snobby ponce.'"